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Dear Mr Timothy L Allen:
You're lucky I don't like the idea of spending the rest of my life in a small cell, with only a couple of hours allowance for some outdoor activity, most likely involving jogging (which I hate) and weight lifting (which I don't like anymore than I like jogging). You're lucky I worry about what my parents would think of me if I hauled ass up north with a frying pan to teach you the meaning of the same kind of pain you inflicted on those poor chickens. That's right, you're damn lucky I don't have any plans to repay you in kind for the kindness you showed your feathered friends.
Of course, jail time means lots of time to read, even if it also means a good chance of a lesbian shower gang rape, followed by a possible shanking. So maybe I'd like jail. Sure I'd have to learn how to melt toothbrushes into weapons, and how to turn my most private orifices into secret purses, but maybe it would be worth it to be the one who gives you yours.
God, I fvcking hate you, you stupid pot smoker. HATE YOU.
Sincerely,
A girl who eats chicken, but still doesn't believe in chicken torture.
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